Painfully so
by Tozz
Summary: Series 2 spoilers. John/Sherlock. Dr. John Watson felt that surely, to a man like Sherlock Holmes, his feelings were as obvious, as heart-on-your-sleeve, as read-like-an-open-book, as stamped-across-your-forehead as Molly Hooper's were to everyone else.


It was inevitable that I would write something for this fandom. After doing enough lurking, I realize that it's hard to be original anymore. Still, I felt compelled to write this.

Just a little musing from John as he tries to untangle his relationship with Sherlock. Takes place before Reichenbach.

x x x

Dr. John Watson felt that surely, to a man like Sherlock Holmes, his feelings were as obvious, as heart-on-your-sleeve, as read-like-an-open-book, as stamped-across-your-forehead as Molly Hooper's were to everyone else. He sympathized with the lovesick young woman in a way that made him deeply, squirmingly uncomfortable. The biggest pangs came any time he'd see her face either crumple or glow in Sherlock's presence, depending on what words the consulting detective tossed at her that particular day. It was as if her very trembling existence relied on whatever direction his current jerked her.

John knew the feeling all too well.

But the difference between John Watson and Molly Hooper was that Molly's pining was apparent to everyone, though no one would ever admit aloud. Her raging infatuation was pathetically sweet, sweetly pathetic, and better left unacknowledged, in order to preserve as much of her dignity as possible. Of course, Sherlock took no heed of that sort of thing. That was made clear at Christmas, when he'd acted so thick and uncouth, even worse than usual. In that moment, watching the debacle unfold, John was seized by a panic, but not just on behalf of Molly. He felt afraid for himself, too.

It was the fear that one day Sherlock would deconstruct him in exactly the same way, break him into pieces and pieces like a puzzle in reverse, until the truth was so itching and present and visible that you'd rather gouge your own eyes out than have to look at it anymore. That was how he'd felt at Christmas, and briefly, and not for the first time, he wanted desperately, terribly, to hate Sherlock Holmes, for nothing and everything all at once.

It was odd, though, how clumsy Sherlock had been about the whole thing. It was as if he truly had no idea how Molly felt, right up until the very instant that he looked at the gift tag and saw his name written there. But even before then, before he'd outed her so unceremoniously, John knew Sherlock had had some inkling. He must have. When Sherlock wanted something from Molly, John would watch him pay her little compliments about her hair, or her jewelry, or her new perfume—oh God, that time had really made her swoon, when he'd leaned in close for a whiff before asking for yet another special favor.

And that scared him too. The thought that maybe Sherlock did the same to him. Calling him clever, noticing he'd gotten a trim, all the little things Sherlock said every once and a while that forced John to pretend he wasn't pleased—maybe they were manipulative rather than sincere, acts of precision rather than of kindness. After all, he'd once led John to believe he'd made him coffee by way of apology, and really, it was an attempt to drug him. Maybe all the nice things he did were like that, because he knew what kind of reaction he could get out of John. How it would make him feel. Because Sherlock had to know how he made John feel, because Sherlock was Sherlock. Because Sherlock dove right past the surface _every single time_. It was second nature for him. John felt it whenever Sherlock laid eyes on him. He could put on every jumper in his whole closet, and it still wouldn't be enough to hide himself.

He might as well take a page from Irene Adler and stride into a room stark naked in front of Sherlock one day—ha! It brought him a fleeting smugness to imagine the surprise on the other man's face, but deep down, John knew he was kidding himself. His war-hardened body wouldn't bring too many surprises for Sherlock. He'd probably take his goddamn measurements in his head, mentally calculate the length of his deepest scar, the one that stretched across his shoulder, and move right along.

Jesus. He felt like a schoolboy with a crush as corrupting as a toothache. All the telltale signs were there—the denials in public, the admiration in secret. Admiration that leaked out every once and a while despite his best efforts. He could feel himself getting ridiculously, desperately defensive at the barest suggestion that they were an item, trying too hard to make sure everyone knew that no he wasn't gay, he and Sherlock were friends yes just friends, just two flat mates, no definitely not absolutely not Sherlock the Virgin and John the Confirmed Bachelor did not have anything but a platonic purely strictly platonic relationship, thank you very much, and stop asking God please let them stop asking.

But hell, since everyone _did_ keep asking, maybe it was more apparent than he thought.

Of course, there was also the fact that not even John knew how he felt. He was quite certain he wasn't attracted to men. He was quite certain he was attracted to women, and a fair lot of them at that. But Sherlock was transcendental, somehow. God, he'd probably love to hear that, wouldn't he? That he was so special he was meant for another plane. Or no, on second thought, no, he'd hate it; he'd accuse John of putting him on a pedestal like he had before. But it wasn't like that, couldn't be like that, because John was so very aware of how human Sherlock was. The force that pulled them together—and he felt it, every day—came from somewhere in their core, instinctual and irrational and undeniable, two humans at their basest level clawing and scrambling and yearning for some kind of hold they believed existed in the other. That was how John saw it, anyway. No telling how mutual that yearning really was, and no way would he ever say any of that out loud to Sherlock in order to confirm it. He didn't think he needed to, though, that was the thing. That was the beauty of it.

He had other kinds of yearnings, too, of course, and he didn't understand those either. Like the yearning at breakfast when he looked across the table at Sherlock and saw him lick stray bread crumbs from his lips. Or the yearning at the sight of his hands on a violin, his fingers. The yearning, the thrill, at the sight of a sheet trailing on the floor as Sherlock moped about the flat and no, he wasn't wearing any pants.

He was aware of it all. His awareness was a entity all on its own, like another whole person living in the flat with them—Sherlock had to notice that, at least. And maybe he did.

Maybe he took two extra seconds with his tongue to get rid of those crumbs with on purpose.

Maybe he gripped the neck of the instrument _just so_ on purpose.

Or maybe he just liked wearing nothing but a sheet.

Maybe he was as dense about John as he had been about Molly.

Maybe John did a damn good job at hiding whatever he was hiding after all.

But that didn't take away from his own awareness, nor from the fear of discovery of what was both so painfully obvious and utterly obtuse, the fact that yes fine pry it out of me will you, yes yes yes, that John was in love with the most frustrating, most beautiful, most human human being he'd ever known.


End file.
